The Optimist: But I am innocent M’Lord

Have always thought of myself as a rather brilliant driver. Able to drive fast, text, solve world peace and have a multi-way conversation while dodging taxis and the blue light brigade at the same time. (I lie about the texting and talking on the mobile because we upstanding citizens just do not do that.) Yet […]

Have always thought of myself as a rather brilliant driver. Able to drive fast, text, solve world peace and have a multi-way conversation while dodging taxis and the blue light brigade at the same time. (I lie about the texting and talking on the mobile because we upstanding citizens just do not do that.)

Yet I am convinced I am the target for any idiot on tar. They find me, and then crash into me. To add to the heinous attack, it is the aftermath of insurance hell that makes of me the real victim. As it was two weeks ago in South Africa in a rented car. I am like a Sunday school teacher at the gates of heaven when it comes to driving a rented car. As gentle and prissy as a mum holding her newborn for the first time. But no, man with a van sans licence decides to bring the boot to the bonnet in record time. Thank goodness the only injury was to my vocabulary. Poor man, he said his brakes failed. I ponder the existence of brakes at all, if you look at the car in question. As it transpired, the accident was a spring blossom compared to Hades waiting for me at the local police station. I am still rather traumatised by the experience but suffice to say I would not expect a smidgeon of compassion if I had to report a really serious assault. I cried, not as a result of the trauma recently experienced, but because Attila the brain-dead was so utterly mean to me. Ugh and ugh again. My pretty pink English driver’s licence did not help.

And now I face the brutal myriad of insurance claim forms. Be warned: you book car rental through English website, they choose South African car company. Latter has no documentation of excess cover. You have proof. They don’t care. Car hire England outsources insurance claims. They want original police records — and pictures of crime scene. Darn, forgot to take the pictures. I will be found buried under ‘pass the buck’ bureaucracy with rigor mortis and whispering ‘why me’ over and over again. Don’t you just hate being treated this way?

However, she says. And this is one for the books. Got a traffic fine last time in South Africa. Duly paid it in fear of being escorted from boarding gate. On this trip, I received mail from my previous address. The magnificent Magistrate of Ladysmith decided to revoke the fine, and duly issued ME with a cheque as a refund. The scary part is I no longer have a fixed address in SA, was in a rented car with a British licence and they found me. The good part is, not many of you can say the Traffic Department gave you money — did my admittance of guilt turn into theirs?